


All the dreams you shed your blood for

by AnbarElectrum



Series: Crashing Down [2]
Category: RWBY
Genre: Adult!Qrow is hurting and defaults to anger, Angst and Feels, Backstory, Episode: v06e04 So That's How It Is, Flashbacks, Gen, Non-Linear Narrative, Qrow Branwen Swears, STRQ era, Self-Worth Issues, Teenage!Qrow is a directionless brat, apparently Ozpin's preferred anti-espionage tool is the Socratic method, but the feels and angst happen like 20 years apart and the feels were first, which means the prose does too. a lot.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-20
Updated: 2019-12-20
Packaged: 2021-02-26 19:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21873970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnbarElectrum/pseuds/AnbarElectrum
Summary: When he'd first met Ozpin [...] there was no fateful encounter, no sense of burgeoning destiny as Qrow looked upon the man who would shape his entire future."Meeting you was the worst luck of my life."In light of certain revelations, Qrow reflects on his life choices and the man who led him to make most of them—but above all, he remembers the day Qrow Branwen, bandit, started down the path to becoming Qrow Branwen, Huntsman.Cross-posted from my ff.net account.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen & Ozpin (RWBY)
Series: Crashing Down [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1574203
Comments: 6
Kudos: 52





	All the dreams you shed your blood for

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted 11/25/18 as And For What?
> 
> This was not part of the original Crashing Down, as those stories were published as chapters of a single fic and this would have been the odd one out, being from Qrow's perspective instead of Oscar's and featuring a massive flashback smack in the middle, but it was written with a similar concept and mindset behind it. Enough, I feel, to warrant its inclusion as one story out of a series, where it didn't fit as one chapter out of a story. Thus its rename to match the lyric-snippet mechanic of the other entries.  
> Not much else to note about it that won’t be evident after reading it, so I’ll stop carrying on, shall I? As ever, I hope you enjoy!

Contrary to what Raven and James and, hell, _everyone_ seems to believe, Qrow has never held Ozpin up on any sort of pedestal. He’s simply not built for worship; gods are too distant and people are too fallible. When he’d first met Ozpin—well, _met_ is a strong word for it, but still—he’d felt bored, mostly. There was no fateful encounter, no sense of burgeoning destiny as Qrow looked upon the man who would shape his entire future. There was just a stuffy-looking academic up on a stage delivering a speech Qrow honestly can’t remember. He’s sure it was inspirational as all get out; for better or worse, Ozpin’s always been a master orator.

(He remembers laughing almost uncontrollably when he’d first realised Ozpin was ad-libbing virtually _every time_. “So you’re—you’re tellin’ me each one of your new speeches is pulled straight outta your ass?”

Ozpin had frowned at him, his stern expression marred by the faint blush that still lingered out of embarrassment for the slip of the tongue which had exposed this secret—one of the very first of his that Qrow had been privy to. “One might rather say each is from the heart,” he had reproached. Qrow’s response had been to laugh even harder.

Ozpin’s talent for spinning pretty words out of nothing doesn’t seem so funny now.)

Yes, it had definitely been the _band-together-and-reach-for-the-stars_ kind of speech, now Qrow thinks about it, because it’s not just boredom he remembers. It was _scorn._ See, Qrow’s never liked to delude himself. He figures that’s probably why he spends so much time drowning his sorrows; he just isn’t good at burying them the old-fashioned way, with pleasant thoughts and platitudes. He’d never been harbouring a secret longing for heroism that contrasted Raven’s inherent villainy or whatever. Nah; a pair of twins, raised by the same people in the same environment, given the same beliefs and morals and stupid self-serving might-makes-right philosophy? They’re gonna be two peas in a pod, and he and Raven were no exception. ’Course, Raven was always the leader. She was older, for one. For another, she didn’t have bad luck dogging her every step like a desperate jilted lover—at least, not when Qrow kept a safe distance. But neither of them ever questioned what the other was thinking or feeling back then, because there was no need. He and Raven just glanced at each other as Ozpin’s voice rose and fell in the background, and Qrow _knew_ he was wearing the exact look of _come on, really?_ that he saw on his sister’s face.

They were two wolves in a flock of sheep, and the placid shepherd standing watch over them all gave no sign he’d noticed. _This_ was humanity’s hope incarnate? The renowned genius Huntsman that no law-abiding citizen of Remnant had a disparaging word for? This was one of the four men and women who’d been chosen to safeguard _the entire world_ from the Grimm? This—this was _pathetic!_ The Branwen tribe was doing the whole order of Huntsmen a favour by learning to put them out of their misery. How did the Academies produce the skilled warriors Qrow had seen when they were spoon-feeding their students this _let’s-hold-hands_ crap?

So, yeah. To say Qrow had been less than impressed by the great Professor Ozpin was a gross understatement.

His opinion hadn’t changed much the first time he wound up face-to-face with the guy. Or the second. Or the fifth. …Okay, so maybe he should have followed Raven’s example and kept his head down, since they were, y’know, trying to pull something pretty close to treason, but back in the day Raven had been the level-headed one. Funny how things change. But he hadn’t done the smart thing, so instead he wound up in the headmaster’s office. A lot.

Qrow hadn’t known, then, that he and Raven were already being closely watched just for being members of Team STRQ. He still isn’t sure if Ozpin had already known why the Branwen twins were in his school—he’s never quite been able to bring himself to ask—but if he hadn’t, Summer and her silver eyes put spotlights onto every one of her teammates, so he’s very sure Ozpin knew exactly what he was doing at Beacon by the time Qrow was first hauled up to his desk. For years, Qrow had held onto that knowledge, because it made what came next nothing short of a miracle: he was allowed to stay. The in-the-moment Qrow didn’t see any particular grace in this at first, of course; it had been just another sign of weakness to him.

Ah, yes. ‘Weakness’. That had been when it all started, hadn’t it?

_“The weak die, and the strong live.” The words were slow, deliberate; spoken in the meter of a man quoting, rather than speaking his own words. That element of remove didn’t do much to change how jarring it was to hear those words in Ozpin’s voice. How_ wrong _it was._

_The great clock ticked on all around them even as Qrow stilled, tensing. “…That it?” he asked as the empty space in the conversation stretched wider._

_Ozpin’s face was curiously blank as he reached for his mug, lifting it and taking a sip. There should have been a smile there. Ozpin always smiled. Qrow knew, because he always had to repress the urge to punch him for it._

(Ozpin isn’t smiling when Qrow finally does punch him. He’s crying, weeping in eerie silence. He doesn’t even try to fight back.)

_“You tell me,” Ozpin said at last, lowering the mug back to the desk but not relinquishing it, closing his other hand around the outer curve of the warm ceramic._

_“If you’re not gonna give me any kind of context then they’re…they’re just words, Professor,” Qrow said._ Play along _was Raven’s usual advice. Unfortunately, Ozpin was rarely good about cueing the role he expected Qrow to play, which left his only real option as playing dumb._

_“Words,” Ozpin repeated. “Words…to live by, one might say.”_

_“One might,” Qrow agreed cautiously, adding after a heartbeat, “say that.”_

_Ah. There it was. That damn smile._

_“Would you?”_

_“Would I what?”_

_“Mr. Branwen.” Qrow could fill in the words Ozpin hadn’t said on his own:_ don’t ask stupid questions. _Which was a shame, because he’d discovered lately that asking stupid questions was an excellent way to stall for time. It also made Ozpin a fucking hypocrite, and Qrow decided he was done ‘playing along’. Raven could shove it._

_“Look, you already know the answer,” Qrow said, gripping the arms of his chair tightly. “It’s something a lot of people believe, but sayin’ it with those words—you’re either quoting me, or my sister. Either way, you know damn well what I think about it.”_

_Ozpin raised an eyebrow at ‘damn’, but didn’t chastise him. “But I don’t, Mr. Branwen. Parroting a philosophical slogan is not the same as adhering to the philosophy it promotes. Context,” he said abruptly, releasing his mug and reaching for his cane where it was propped against the desk instead, fingers curling loosely over the finial—pommel? Qrow couldn’t figure out if it was a weapon or not—as he leaned back in his chair. “A group of travellers have opted to journey from the eastern shore into the City of Vale by means of the shortest direct route—that is to say, across the mountains. I leave their reasons for doing so to your imagination, but being in the wilderness, their party soon attracts a pack of Beowolves—and, being in the rough vicinity of Beacon Academy, this in turn draws the attention of a team of third-year students on a training mission. The travellers’ rising panic is not assuaged by the students’ arrival, however, and a flock of Nevermores is quick to follow. Each group is now in the same location, and conflict is inevitable. Tell me: who survives the encounter?”_

_“The Huntsmen-in-training,” Qrow replied immediately. “Or the Grimm, if the students are shi—aren’t great fighters,” he revised, as Ozpin gave him the most languid ‘just fucking don’t’ look he’d ever seen. It was actually kind of impressive._

_“Because they are ‘strong’, while the travellers are ‘weak’.”_

_“Sure. I mean—look, it’s not_ actually _a philosophy thing, or whatever,” Qrow said, waving a hand dismissively. “Don’t go thinking_ I _think the travellers have it coming. I mean,_ I _wouldn’t go trekkin’ around in the mountains if I didn’t know how to fight, but I don’t know why they decided to do that, right? Maybe there were a bunch of Ursi stalking the actual road. Maybe they’re short on food and this is the only way to get to safety before they all starve. I don’t know! I’m just saying, it’s common sense. You’re facing off with a bunch of Grimm, then the only way you’re walking away from that is if you can hold your own in a fight. End of story.”_

_Ozpin hadn’t exactly been_ smiling _for a while by that point, but it was as Qrow finished speaking that he realised the headmaster looked…sad?_

_“Mr. Branwen,” Ozpin began slowly, meeting his eyes over the rims of his glasses, “what are the charges of a Huntsman?”_

_Ah. Disappointed, then. Well, fuck him anyway._

_“Kill Grimm. Keep Grimm away from settlements. …Save people,” he added, grudgingly, because he could already see where this was going. “I was supposed to say ‘the travellers’, right?”_

_“You were supposed to answer the question honestly, and you did.”_

_“But if I were thinking like a Huntsman, I would’ve answered the way you wanted.”_

_“What I want is immaterial.” He was still holding Qrow’s gaze with his own. “If you don’t believe you’re thinking like a Huntsman, may I ask what you_ are _supposedly thinking as?”_

_Qrow lifted his chin, setting his jaw. “A survivor.”_

_Ozpin nodded slowly. Thoughtfully. “And that is your only goal? Survival?”_

_“Best one I know.”_

_“Why?”_

_“What?”_

_“Why is survival so important? No, sorry; it’s an obvious question with an obvious answer. To survive is vital because it allows one to go on living._ That _is the question I would have you answer for me, Mr. Branwen. Why do you, and I do mean_ you, _personally, want to go on living?”_

_For a long moment, Qrow couldn’t do more than blink at the crazy old man behind the clockwork desk. Maybe that was it. Maybe Ozpin was either crazier or older than Qrow took him for, had some kind of weird death wish or something._

(Qrow wishes he could congratulate his younger self for being more right than he could ever have imagined. He also wishes he could tell the stupid self-important little bastard to stop talking and walk right out of Beacon Tower, preferably via the nearest window; he’ll be better off in the long run.)

_“Beats the alternative,” Qrow said finally._

_“I’m glad to hear it,” Ozpin replied with every appearance of sincerity. He paused, but this time, Qrow could sense it was the sort of pause that actually had words gathering behind it, so he waited._

_“The question of who survives the encounter I described earlier is one that, hypothetically, does not need to have a single answer. Depending on a variety of factors including enemy numbers, the number of civilians in need of protection, weather conditions, terrain, ammunition stocks, and the physical condition of the four Huntsmen and Huntresses which comprise the Academy team, it is entirely possible for both the team and the travellers to survive.”_

_Qrow furrowed his brow. “It was a trick question?”_

_“No. It was a question that, as a hypothetical scenario, had multiple possible solutions. Yet your mind latched onto the idea that only one of the three groups—team, travellers, and Grimm—could survive. You theorised first that the team would defend themselves selfishly, and thus survive; you theorised second that the team would defend the travellers selflessly, and thus sacrifice themselves but enable the civilians to survive.” Ozpin leaned forward. “You drew a line in the sand where none needed to exist: a line between what a survivor would do and what a Huntsman would do. A good Huntsman, Mr. Branwen,_ is _someone who will put his life on the line for others; that is true. But a good Huntsman is also a skilled and intelligent warrior who will do his best to ensure he lives to fight another day. A survivor. Someone like you.”_

_Qrow couldn’t think of anything to say._

_“The weak live, and the strong live,” Ozpin mused. “Isn’t that preferable? If we all strive to protect each other_ and _ourselves, perhaps no one need die before their time.”_

_No one but the strong who preyed on the weak because it was how they made a living. No one but people like Raven and Qrow._

_“People die,” Qrow said bluntly. “It happens. It just does.”_

_“Yes,” Ozpin agreed. “Of course, the elimination of tragedy is impossible. Say that team of trainees is worn out from fighting already. Say they’re low on Dust rounds and first-aid supplies. Say they’re fighting not in an open clearing, but in a tight network of trees, and there are the better part of a dozen people in need of their protection. Perhaps, just perhaps, this is a fight they shouldn’t take on. The strong live because they have a choice, and the weak die because they have none. Would that be the right thing to do?”_

_Raven would say it was the right thing, wouldn’t she? And Qrow had never disagreed with her, not on the life-or-death stuff. So his answer was ‘yes’…of course. Not that he could say that. It wasn’t the right thing by Ozpin’s standards, Qrow was sure, so his answer here would have to be ‘no’._

_“…I don’t know,” Qrow said, much to his surprise. But it felt…honest._

_Ozpin, however, was once again giving him the look that Qrow had earlier identified as ‘disappointed’. He braced himself._

_“Neither do I,” Ozpin said quietly, redoubling Qrow’s surprise. There was a solid_ click _of metal on glass as the headmaster relinquished his cane and reached for one of the strange bronze dials near the edge of the glass desk, spinning it gently and calling up a holographic interface. The fingers of one hand danced through the air, sifting through the panes of light, while the other wrapped once again around the handle of his mug._

_“Do you recognise them?” Ozpin asked, his voice very soft as he twirled his fingers, turning the interface around in midair so that Qrow could see it. The scroll portraits of four girls looked back at him, their faces vaguely familiar._

_A peculiar sinking feeling took up residence in Qrow’s gut. A training mission in the mountains…a bunch of travellers from the eastern shore…the sole remaining Huntress managing to escort them to safety before succumbing to her wounds…_

_“Team GNJR,” Qrow breathed._

_“Four lives lost to preserve nine more,” Ozpin said. “Four of my students sacrificed for the sake of nine strangers. The strong die so the weak might live. For two of these young ladies’ families, that they died selflessly was a comfort, however cold. One of the girls had no family to speak of; her team was her whole world. And the last of them…no parents, but an older brother who bitterly resents her fate and holds our entire profession accountable, especially me.”_

_“…Do you…wish they hadn’t helped the travellers?” Qrow ventured. Immediately, he wished he could kick himself. Wrong question, wrong audience, wrong_ everything.

_“I wish thirteen people had made it to safety,” Ozpin replied. “I_ wish _a great many things, but I am not so naïve as to expect those wishes to come true.” When the headmaster hid the display again, his expression hadn’t changed, but it looked different to Qrow. He had read it wrong. He had seen disappointment, but this was…_

_“‘What I want is immaterial’,” Qrow quoted in barely more than a whisper._

_Ozpin smiled again, briefly; there was a bitter twist to his lips this time, swiftly hidden by the rim of his mug. “And you, Qrow?” he asked. “What do you want?”_

_Qrow was pretty sure the last time he’d heard Ozpin use his given name was the evening Team STRQ was officially formed. Hearing it now startled him more than it should have, which was perhaps why, for the second time that afternoon, he found himself admitting:_

_“I don’t know.”_

He was lost the moment he gave Ozpin that opening, Qrow can see that now. But Ozpin had exposed his own vulnerability in order to win that moment of weakness from him. Ozpin hadn’t pretended to be anything other than what he was, even if he was still lying about _who_ he was. He was human, and flawed; his convictions were few, and there was much he was uncertain about. But there was steel in the man. There was strength and stability, and that moment in Ozpin’s office all those years ago had been the beginning of Qrow’s understanding of himself: he wanted _that._ The strength to believe in what little he did believe in with everything he was; the stability of a single path beneath his feet, one of his own choosing.

And Ozpin had given him _exactly_ what he wanted, almost before he knew he wanted it. A place and a purpose. Missions to carry out and a home to come back to. A sense of righteousness. A certainty that he was doing his best. _That_ is the idol Qrow had made. Ozpin is just the man who gave it to him. Just the man Qrow had given his life to in return.

He’d been so _pathetically_ grateful.

Over time, ‘Professor’ became ‘Ozpin’. ‘Ozpin’ became ‘Oz’. His teacher became his mentor, and at last, his friend. His family. He was never, and Qrow will not budge on this, _never_ an object of worship, any more than Tai was, or Ruby, or Yang. But he is…he _was_ every bit as precious.

‘Oz’ is…gone now. Perhaps he’d never really existed. Perhaps Ozpin is just that good of a liar. Or perhaps Qrow had been so desperate to be wanted, to have someone give him something to do and somewhere to belong, that he’s allowed himself to be fooled all these years.

Summer had been fooled too. Whatever she’d been up to in her final days, to keep it so secret, it _must_ have had something to do with their mission. Ozpin kept her in the dark, Summer kept them _all_ in the dark, and in the end she’d paid for her trust and her silence with her life. …But Ozpin must have had plans for her. What had he planned for Ruby?

No more. Not one goddamn _second_ more.

(Ozpin’s tears are back; his voice is cracking, brittle. Why does he have to look like a child this time? It’s the obvious explanation for why Qrow feels so hollow, why his righteous fury is burning out into a simmering, spiteful rage that empties where it should satisfy.)

“Meeting you,” Qrow seethes, his voice even lower and rougher than usual, “was the worst luck of my _life.”_

If he has been Ozpin’s lapdog, as Raven once called him, he has well and truly slipped his leash. He won’t be collared again. But he’s still a _decent fucking person,_ he _has_ to believe that, and no decent man is happy to see a crying child. He tells himself that’s why it hurts so damn bad when hazel eyes go dull, when small shoulders bow. When the numb, broken voice that comes from Oscar’s throat but is in every other way Ozpin’s says, “Maybe you’re right.”

He has nothing that can explain away why it _still_ hurts when Oscar’s eyes flare gold for what might be the last time, if what the kid says is true. …But Qrow shouldn’t think like that, and he knows it; Oscar didn’t choose to host the…the _parasite_ in his mind. None of this is his fault, and that knowledge is what sends him reaching for his flask when he sees the bruise he left on the boy’s cheek.

Ozpin will be back. Qrow’s sure of it. (He isn’t really, but the thought of Ozpin being gone forever sends panic sparking down his spine and dread clenching his stomach and he doesn’t want to unpack that right now.) As to what they’ll do then…?

He doesn’t know. He’s never had to know. The answer’s always been so easy, whether it was his mother or Raven or Ozpin pulling his strings. Trust is seductive like that. Well, damn the meddling old wizard anyway. They’ll get the Relic to Atlas, where it can be James’s problem. Hell, maybe the kids can be James’s problem too; someone still needs to kill Grimm, even if their Queen is apparently invulnerable. Team RWBY and the remains of Team JNPR can transfer to Atlas Academy and pick up school life where they left off, until the inevitable apocalypse hits or whatever and Oscar can just—

And Qrow can just—

…Take another drink, and another step, and try not to think too hard about his wasted life or Summer’s lost one.

“Keep moving forward,” he mutters bitterly, and raises his flask to his lips.


End file.
